


When All Is Said And Done

by laudanum86



Category: Baldur's Gate, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Drama & Romance, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudanum86/pseuds/laudanum86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of the many things Millara wished for, she wishes most to look into her father's murderer's face before she kills him. But what if her nemesis turns out the man she once loved? What if she and Sarevok met in Candlekeep and actually knew each other? When all is said and done, could it really change anything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Baldur's Gate belongs to Bioware/Black Isle, not me :)
> 
> (Given the lots and lots of discussions in regards of whatever Imoen, Sarevok and Charname should be really considered siblings, I've got this story marked with an appropriate tag, just to be safe. There isn't going to be anything very graphic, but still - it's fiction M for a reason, and if the idea creeps you out, don't read it. I apologise for spelling/grammar mistakes. English isn't my first language.)

* * *

 

  _"No."_

 

_The horned helmet - so heavy, she's barely able to hold it - falls from her hands. As it hits the stone floor, the monster - one who haunted her dreams when she slept at night and hunted her by day - is finally gone._

 

_There is only a man now._

 

_"No."_

 

* * *

 

 

_The monster, it had no face._

_...It was a moving mountain clad in blackened steel, all jagged edges and cruel spikes, its head a toothy, laughing demon's mask. Its eyes glowed within, hot, like gold on the bottom of an alchemist's melting-pot. Its voice was a rasp of a sword dragged over a rock and its laugh a roar of an avalanche...  
_

 

* * *

 

 

_The man is flesh, blood and bones - just like she is - and his face under the horned helmet is young and beautiful and familiar._

 

_Dear._

 

_"You. No. It can't be. Why."_

 

_He's not dead, not just yet - she knows, for his steel-clad chest is still raising a little as more and more of his blood comes pooling by the shattered statue's feet, like a too late offering to the long dead god._

_Behind her, Bhaal's temple's remains are burning. It's quiet now, safe for a distant crackling of fire, and air reeks of smoke, metallic ozone-scent of magic and musty dampness of the underground._

_And blood. Her hands feel sticky with it.  
_

 

_"It can't be. No. Please."_

 

_Alas. It can, and it is._

 

 _She wants to pray, but there are no one who would listen to her prayers in this forsaken place. No one remains but for her, him, and the dead. She slumps to the ground and_ _lies there, crumpled, as pitiful and broken as the man bleeding his life away into the cracked stones._

 

_"Millara!"_

 

_Someone calls her name from afar._

 

_She doesn't move. Listening to his laboured breath, she waits for tears to come._

 

_Her eyes sting and stay dry.  
_

* * *

 

 

"Heh. Your face is red like a cooked crayfish, girl."

 

Millara bit on her lip, determined not to cry and willing herself to focus on her work instead.

 

She reached for a bucket, retrieved the cleaning rag and wrung it forcefully. Soapy water splashed on the counter, floor, and her new apron.

 

 _Stupid_.

 

Stupid Imoen, for asking for a day off and stupid Millara, for agreeing to take her shift instead. Stupid Winthrop, for going out to bring more firewood and not coming back. Stupid bar patrons, for not being here when they should be crowding all around the hall, the inn unusually empty for this time of the afternoon.

 

"Not many kids around here. Who are you?"

"I'm Millara, sir."

"Are you the innkeep's daughter?"

"No, sir."

"Ah. Some monk's bastard, then."

 

Her teeth ground loudly.

 

"I'm not! Gorion is my foster-father."

 

Stupid, stupid, obnoxious _giant_ , for coming here with apparently one goal: to mock her and torment her and make her life altogether miserable.

 

"Why, you're not going to cry, or are you?"

 

Millara let out a fierce sniffle and shook her head, her curls coming out from a knot and falling around her shoulders like a pale curtain, obscuring her face from the stranger's view. At least she could glare at him all she wanted now.

The chair he was seated upon seemed positively dwarfed by his size. The man was a soldier or a knight, Millara was almost entirely sure; the loose scholar's robes did nothing to hide his muscular frame. His head was clean-shaven, and so was his face - a face that, under different circumstances, she would have thought oddly compelling.

 

If he only wasn't so very rude.

 

"No."

"Ah, good. And here I was considering whatever I shall call for your mammy or not."

"My mammy is dead, sir."

"A nursemaid then, perhaps."

 

Millara huffed indignantly, but still refused to look at the man.

 

"I'm past sixteen."

"Heh, glad you chose to enlighten me. You seemed so eager to engage in a hide-and-seek, I would have guessed you're six at most."

 

Her fingers clenched around her cleaning rag; only then, she noticed the water dripping, forming a dirty puddle at her feet. She squatted and proceeded with wiping the spill.

 

Truth to be told, she indeed dashed into the pantry right after she saw the man enter - intent to stay there amongst vegetable baskets and jars of pickles, quietly counting all the Winthrop's silver spoons and pretending she didn't know he was there until he would leave. She didn't really anticipated him to come looking for her.

 

With a sigh, she dropped the rag back into the bucket and stood up - only to find the man leaning over the countertop.

 

A large hand came down, brushing her hair away from her face.

 

His fingers were warm.

 

Millara inhaled sharply, blushing even more - if that was still possible - and stuttered.

 

"Y-yes, sir?"

"Are you going to serve me, or am I to help myself?"

 

She swallowed, nervous.

 

"O-of course, I apologise. Shall I p-pour you another ale?"

"It will please me sufficiently if you get me the one I have ordered quarter a bell ago."

"Yes, sir. At once."

 

Only then he let go of her face. Millara turned around and reached for a tankard. Too hastily; it fell from her shaking hands and crashed against the floor, breaking into a hundred sparkling pieces.

 

_Stupid._

 

The stranger roared laughing.

 

She lunged behind the bar, not caring anymore, hot tears running down her cheeks as she clumsily tried to pick up the bigger pieces. A hiss escaped her lips when a glass shard nicked her finger. Then, the scullery's back door opened and Winthrop came inside, letting in a cold gust of wind and whistling loudly.

 

"Millara! Where're ye, young one?"

 

Millara wiped her eyes and nose with her dresses' sleeve and cleared her throat.

 

"I'm right here."

"Brought some good news for ye. It's snowing. Just look."

 

Suddenly, a snowball flew in her direction.

It missed her head by mere inches - Millara squealed, surprised, feeling a brief rush of excitement die at the same instant. Her shift wasn't supposed to end by the midnight.

 

"I thought-"

"Aye, aye. Give us a hand with the firewood 'ere like a good girl ye is, and then you're free to go. Imoen has already talked Dreppin into taking out the sledges." - Winthrop chuckled good-naturedly - "She's in the stables now, so hurry up. It doesn't look as if it was gonna get busy tonight, anyways."

 

She heard the innkeep dump the logs by the fireside, floor creaking under his boots as he sauntered behind the bar. Millara looked up, sucking on her thumb.

 

"And just what happened here?"

"I'm sorry. I've broken a glass."

 

Winthrop stared at her, incredulous.

 

"Ye gods, is that why you're crying, lass? It was a fine tankard, no doubt, but afterall, only a tankard. Here now, go get a broom."

"I'll serve the man there, first." - she whispered - "He's so mean, you won't believe it."

 

A startled look crossed the inkeep's face.

 

"What man, Millara? There's no one here."

 

Millara glanced around and shook her head. The man was gone indeed - both the chair he sat on and the inn's hall were empty.

 

* * *

 

 

_A low groan wakes her from stupor._

_Light-headed, she drags herself to her feet and then comes to stand on a pile of rubble that's left where a marble pillar once stood. There's still more red streaks on the cracked floor, the colour vivid, startling against the white stone._

_Another choked yelp escapes his mouth. His beautiful, long dark lashes flutter like a butterfly's wings._ _She stands there immobile, waiting, watching the man as he stirs._

_Patient. Hers is all the time in the world._

_It feels so strange, to look into his face again, up close. All his features are as familiar to her as her own - the rich brown of his skin, a strong jaw with a shadow of a stubble, a prominent nose, his cheekbones sharp as blades._

_They look so nothing alike._

_Almost._

_She kneels on the ground beside him and reaches out, gently wiping blood welling at his chapped lips. He glowers at her - of course he would - and his mouth twitch, baring teeth. Whatever it's in impatience or pain, she cannot tell. There's a small, crescent-shaped scar in the outer side of his left eyebrow. She doesn't remember it ever being there before._

_When finally he speaks up, his voice sounds low and just as hoarse as hers does._

_"Still here, little one?"_

_"Yes."_

_"You're a funny thing. Always were."_

_He blinks and spits more blood._

_She says nothing. There's nothing to say and nothing more to be afraid of from his side now that all was said and done. The monster is gone, she killed it with her own hands. The man is not a fearsome warrior anymore._

 

_It's the end._

_Yet, she shudders._

_It has nothing to do with the damp cold in the air._

 

* * *

 

 

"He's staring at you."

"No one's staring at me."

 

Millara felt her cheeks grow a little too warm for her liking. She leaned over her scroll. Karan, gentle as he was, has made himself perfectly clear in regards of her written Elven. She has doubled her efforts since, but so far, it seemed she was still far behind of what he was expecting.

 

A fat drop of ink fell from her quill and landed, splattering, on the parchment. There was no blotting paper left in a stand.

 

She muttered a curse.

 

"Well, _he_ is." - Imoen giggled - "Mister 'oh-I'm-so-scary' over there. Ya know, the one with an epic bald of-"

"Shut up, silly."

"Ooh! Millie, will ya look at that. Paint me green and call me a goblin if he ain't staring now!"

 

Now, the tips of her ears were beginning to burn, too. She decided to steal a quick glance. It couldn't hurt, afterall.

 

The library's main hall wasn't as crowded as it was during the summer months - most nobles and richer merchants left Candlekeep by now. Only this morning, she saw them leave by dozens, apparently scared off by an early snowfall and intent to reach safety and comfort of their own homes well before the winter settled for good on the Sword Coast.

Last year, the Lion's Way became impassable for over three weeks - Millara remembered it mostly for the company frequenting Winthrop's place in the evenings, where she has learnt that bored and drunk sons of noblemen were just as noisy and annoying as drunk and bored unlucky farmers who got stuck within the Citadel's walls while bringing in supplies as the blizzard suddenly hit, all squabbling and complaining about the slow service and quality of cooking while she and Imoen worked their hands to the bones.

The man in question - _stupid, obnoxious giant_ \- stood several bookshelves away. Admittedly, he was looking in their general direction, a slight frown at his face.

 

Imoen grinned, nudging her side.

 

"Told you, didn't I?"

"It's because of all the damn noise you're making." - she hissed - "Put your finger down. It's rude."

"As far as I'm concerned, swearing is rude too. Maybe he, ya know, likes you. - Imoen wiggled her eyebrows - "Or-"

 

Millara groaned.

 

"Imoen, please. Be quiet."

"Was he really so mean to you the other day?"

"Yes, he was." - she rose to her feet, gathering her books - "I'm going to my room. I can't work under such conditions."

"So he's distracting you? A little, teensy-weensy bit?"

"I'm so not talking to you."

"Oops, too late." - Imoen raised hands to her mouth with a guilty smile - "He's coming this way. Looks kinda grumpy, too. Perhaps I _was_ a _tad_ too loud, afterall."

 

He was. Coming their way, that is.

 

Quietly refusing being cowered again, Millara folded her scroll and slid it into the tube, then put away the inkwell. She picked up a pouch and was about to hide her writing utensils when a low voice rumbled uncomfortably close to her ear.

 

"Would you mind lending me your quill?"

 

She glanced over her shoulder. His expression, while not exactly warm, was nothing but perfectly polite. Nothing like yesterday.

 

"No, sir. Not at all."

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

* * *

 

 

_The man's lips take on a bluish tint and he breaths in shallow, shuddering gasps that whistle in his throat._

 

_One of his lungs is punctured, she thinks._

 

_Odd, that despite every inch of his body being covered in tempered steel - likely enchanted, too - and a rain of arrows they shoot at him, it's only a stray one she releases in a blind panic that finds the tiny, tiny gap at the joining between his pauldron and a cuirass._

 

_A poisoned arrow, like all in her quiver. The concoction she uses to coat their tips is a nasty one._

 

_That's why he bleeds so much._

 

_That's why he cannot move._

 

_He watches her impassively as she leans towards him again, and dips her finger in the pink froth that wells from the corner of his mouth. The hellish golden light slowly dissipates from his eyes; save for a faint afterglow, his irises are back to what she remembers._

 

_"You look like you would try to bite me still if I gave you a slightest chance." - she observes - "Is that so?"_

 

_The man snorts. His attempt at nonchalance is severely hindered by a fit of an awful, rattling cough that suddenly racks through his chest. She feels warm and wet droplets spray her face, but makes no effort to wipe them._

_"Stupid girl. I should have strangled you in that thrice-damned library."_

_"Yes. And you could've." - she blinks at the memory - "Why didn't you?"_

 

_His forehead creases thoughtfully, and just when he looks about to answer, another wheeze leaves his throat. His body jerks; he groans and more wet warmth splatters against her skin._

 

 

_She waits patiently._

 

* * *

 

 

 

"What are you reading?"

 

Millara startled and nearly jumped to her feet.

It seemed that her efforts to choose the darkest, farthermost corner of the foyer, with only a single oil lamp to illuminate it and a most shabby-looking armchair - which, unbeknown to the public, was actually also very comfortable - wasn't enough to deter unwanted company for too long.

She has only sat down when Phyldia approached her, wondering if Millara could go to the infirmary and bring her some herbs and rubbing spirit. She didn't particularly mind doing that - despite being forgetful and lately quite moody, the older woman was one of Millara's favourite tutors, and the onset of gout seemed to cause her great discomfort. She came back hiding a grin, with the ordered herbs and a flask of what the apothecary claimed to be a special medicine, made to Phyldia's personal recipe, but which on a closer inspection - she couldn't help but be curious - turned out to be apple brandy.

Then, just as she became comfortable in her seat, Arthos, one of the youngest monks appeared, balancing a tower of fat volumes. Millara halfheartedly asked if he needed help - to be honest, she much hoped he would refuse - then accompanied him, huffing and puffing under the books weight, to Ulraunt's chamber. She escaped it promptly, not waiting for the Keeper of the Tomes to blame her into doing another errand.

Not a breath passed since she has entered the library's foyer again, a cup of lemon balm and honey tea in her hand, when Imoen has shown up, insisting on Millara accompanying her on a walk around the citadel's walls. She steadily refused, claiming she felt a cold coming and pointing at her steaming cup as a proof. The other girl shrugged and left, and she was finally, blissfully free to engross in the lecture.

 

And now, _him_.

 

"A book." - she answered promptly, wanting to bite her tongue the same instant.

 

_Stupid, stupid._

 

The man watched her with a perfectly blank face.

 

"Indeed. I should have guessed so myself." - he nodded - "May I ask what book are you reading, then?"

 

Feeling somewhat defensive, Millara cradled the tome closer to her chest. It's indigo-dyed, leather-bound cover was soft under her fingertips, familiar like a friend's touch - it was her beloved book, with gilded letters of twining wines and grappling beasts, richly coloured illuminations depicting mythical creatures, beautiful damsels and valiant heroes of old. When they were younger, she and Imoen used to re-enact scenes from it - although they didn't play in such fashion anymore, privately, Millara still liked to pretend she was Cinder-Ruby enslaved by her evil step-mother - in her case, it was only kindly Winthrop and a day's load of dirty dishes.

 

She noticed the man came closer, both hands extended in her direction. The sleeves of his robe were too short, and it was too tight across his chest. He looked expectant.

 

Hesitantly, she handed the book over to him.

 

" _The Enchanted Tales of the North: of Girl and Wolf and Other Stories_ ". - he read the title aloud, then glanced at Millara, his eyebrows arching a little - "Are these _fairytales_?"

"Yes. What's wrong with that?"

 

The way he stared at her changed from incredulous to downright insulting.

 

"You are privileged live in the world's greatest library - a place where one has to work hard to gain entrance, no less - and yet you slouch in the corner, reading some worthless fairytales..?"

"Yes. That's precisely what I was doing before you interrupted me. " - she growled, instantly protective - "And they are not worthless. On the contrary, if every person reading them took the lesson to their heart, the world would've been a far better place."

"Fool."

 

Millara glared at him in silence, gamut of half-formed curses tickling at the back of her tongue. Suddenly, a strange sound escaped the man's lips. It took her a moment to realise it was a chuckle - short, low and mirthless.

 

Somehow, it made her squirm with unease. He must have noticed that.

 

"Fine." - he snorted - "There _is_ some merit in them, I'll give you that. At least they do teach silly girls like you to be afraid of the big, bad wolf."

 

He leaned and dumped the book back into her lap, then turned around and left.

 

Speechless, she watched him walk down the hall, then disappear in the doorway. A minute later, Imoen rushed in, with her boots leaving dirty smudges on the marble and her cheeks flushed from frost.

 

"Millie! I saw ya-know-who, the big guy!" - she exclaimed, sounding breathless as she plopped down on the chair next to her - "My, you look strange. Was he here? What he wanted?"

 

Millara shook her head, frowning.

 

"Nothing. He wanted to know what I was reading. Oh!"

 

 _"The Enchanted Tales of the North: of Girl and Wolf and Other Stories"_ slid from her lap and onto the floor, few pages coming out loose. Both she and Imoen rushed to retrieve it; their heads crashed with an unpleasant sound.

 

"Oww dang it, Millie." - Imoen grimaced, rubbing at her nose - "Guess you better go to bed. You must've really caught a cold, I swear I don't remember ya ever being so clumsy."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_"What's so funny, sister dear?"_

 

_She brings her palms to her mouth, covering them as the strange sound - something between a hysterical giggle and a choked sob, both and neither - bubbles in her throat._

 

_"And then, the girl took off her red cape, her dress and her petticoat." - she says between her fingers - "And the big, bad wolf saw she was just like him."_

 

_His face is pale, drawn with pain. He stares at her through lowered lashes as if she had lost her mind._

 

_Maybe she is loosing it._

 

_She pulls herself closer and, ignoring the man's feeble protests, reaches to his pauldron's fastening - inches from where her arrow's shaft sticks out, its feather dyed deep, rich blue._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The hour of the wolf was Millara's hour; she was alive and free.

 

Free to run through the citadel's empty corridors and oddly quiet staircases, her bare feet making almost no sound as she danced around the pillars, cartwheeled between light and shadows, her nightshift fluttering like moth's wings whe she was sliding down the banisters. It has been long since the last time a guard last caught her skulking by the doors of the library's main hall or one of many reading rooms - locked for the night, presumably as a fire precaution - now that she came to know every nook and cranny of her kingdom.

Sometimes, Imoen would go with her. They were laughing their heads off after a new guard was heard swearing the second floor was haunted by ghosts of children - it was few years back, and they had much fun playing spectres. It was also together that they discovered how - with a little persistence and certain tools - the library's door at the top floor can be unlocked where there was a narrow, secluded stairwell, designed solely for use of the more important guests. After that, they have spend endless nights, wandering through the vast labyrinth of bookshelves with nothing but a candle's stub, muffling gasps and giggles when a spooky-looking figure turned out to be one of many Alaundo's statues, wondering at strange silence of the place and exploring the ancient and newer tomes in the section that was forbidden to them, and therefore the most alluring.

 

Tonight, Millara was alone.

 

Quietly, she locked the door and blew away the candle's flame, careful not to drop the books balanced in the crook of her elbow. The floor was carpeted in this area, its faded woolen pile thick, but it was chilly anyway - she should have at least taken a shawl before venturing from her room.

She passed by the small store room, and gasped, stiffling a scream and nearly loosing grip on the tomes in her arms as she - unexpectedly and forcefully - stumbled into the dark form that stood looming around the corner.

 

 _It is haunted, afterall_ , she thought wildly, taking a panicked step back.

 

The figure was tall, broad, and despite the initial impression - rather solid. Yet, it did little to comfort her. She recognised him instantly.

 

For a long while - unbearable long - they just stood there, staring at each other. His arms were crossed, and his face as unreadable as when he approached her in the lounge few days ago.

 

"Well." - he said finally, breaking the silence - "And just what are you doing here?"

 

Millara took a deep, steadying breath.

 

"I could ask you the same question. Guests aren't supposed to wander about these parts in the middle of night."

"I am aware of that. What about unruly girls?"

 

She pursed her lips. The man shrugged.

 

"Can't sleep." - he offered.

"Neither I."

"Tsk. Liar." - he clucked his tongue - "And a bad one at that."

"I'm not-"

"What are those, then?"

"Books."

 

 _Stupid_.

 

"Ah. And here I thought they were baby owls." - there was a distinct hint of mockery in his voice - "You just stole them, did you not? Don't bother with another lie, I saw you tampering with that lock only moments ago."

 

He stooped down, lightly resting his palms on her shoulders - so close their noses very nearly touched, and Millara was looking straight into his eyes.

 

The colour - clear, light amber - startled her.

 

She could feel his breath, warm against her cheek.

 

"It's not theft when I intend on returning them."

"None of my business, to be honest." - his fingers cradled her chin, voice dropping to a murmur - "Tell me. How did you know these door can be opened?"

"Because this is my home." - she whispered - "I know everything about this place."

"I see."

 

Apprehensive, she wondered how long he possibly stayed there hidden, watching her, and whatever he was following her. Her senses were acute - she was proud of it - yet she didn't hear a single sound. Nothing. Also, she was becoming increasingly aware that she was standing in a front of an adult man clad only in a thin nightshift and barefoot. Something about the situation made her stomach ache, deep inside. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. It ought to be.

 

Goosebumps rose on her arms; self-councious, she took a small step back, shaking his hands off as she did.

 

"Don't flatter yourself. I wasn't following you, stupid." - the man straightened and snorted, as if somehow reading in her thoughts - "I only saw you close the door, that bundle already in your hands. An immensely interesting choice, I must add."

 

Rather unceremoniously, he plucked  from her hands the topmost book and started to randomly flip through the pages. Millara saw which book it was exactly. She jerked, tugging at his sleeve.

 

"Oy! Give that back!"

 

A corner of his mouth twitched in a wicked grin, chest rumbling with a throaty chuckle. This time, his amusement was plain and evident.

 

_Stupid._

 

"Heh. This one is rather impressive."

"Please give it back."

 

He pointed at a detailed drawing of a male - very _definitely_ male - figure.

 

"Gods, this is precious. Are you truly this sheltered so you need to sneak into the library in a dead of the night to get a look at a-"

 

Millara let out a frustrated screech.

 

"You, sir, are _an_ _asshole_! I need it for my studies, and you have no right to-"

 

She broke off suddenly as a muffled squeak of a boot's sole against the marble reached her ears. The guards were coming. Judging from the sound, fast.

 

Millara didn't spare the man another glance - she turned around and run. She didn't look back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_It's not only her arrow that got through to him, she sees after she removes his pauldron and breastplate._

 

_There are spidery burns on the man's chest, red and angry - with torn blisters weeping liquid and his dark hair scorched in some places, and flaking dead skin in others._

 

_A lightening spell, perhaps._

 

_"Your eyes are like mine."_

_"A coincidence, little sister. The other one's were blue."_

_"The other one's..?"_

_"Yes. I killed him. He was nothing but a weak fool."_

_"Maybe. But now you're dying, too."_

_"Feeling relieved?"_

 

_She bites down at her lip; her mouth fills with a taste of salt and copper while her fingers brush along the arrow's shaft. Thoughtfull, she plucks at the quill, and a tiny bit of a indigo-coloured fluff clings to her sticky fingertip._

 

_A sharp hiss escapes him. His lashes flutter; beads of sweat glisten on his forehead._

 

_The poison she uses, she knows it should have leave him  screaming by now._

 

_So bravely he fights to not scream._

 

_"Yes. No."_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

* * *

 

 

 

"You have left in such a haste last night, you forgot something."

 

And here it was - a bluntly delivered statement, with no greeting and no preamble altogether. Seeing as from whom it was coming from, she really shouldn't have expected more.

 

Millara suppressed a groan of darkest despair.

 

She examined the wine glass in her hand, then returned it to it's rack, her lips pressing into tight, thin line as she readied herself for the incoming stream of taunts and quips.

 

Instead, he indicated the bundle he carried, casually placing it on the countertop.

 

"Here. Take it."

 

Distrustful, she regarded the object.

 

She recognised it's shape right away. It was her unfortunate anatomy book - same one she has inadvertently abandoned yesterday, no mistake about it - safely returned into her possession and wrapped in a cloth that made it look somewhat less conspicuous.

Still, she took a while simply staring - first on the bundle before her, then at the man. He stretched with a yawn, very much at ease and clearly unperturbed by the lack of reaction on her side whatsoever.

 

"If I were you, I would hide it before anyone gets curious."

 

Millara blinked, snapping out of the momentary confusion; she snatched the book and gingerly slid it behind the row of empty bottles.

 

"I... Thank you, sir." - she managed to say - "Thanks a lot."

 

If it wasn't for him, she wouldn't have lost the accursed book in a first place, the less noble part of her pointed sourly. Still, he didn't have to bother with bringing it back to her - much less in such discreet fashion - he might have simply dumped it on the stairs - or, worse still, tell on her. The latter would have effectively and irrevocably ended her night escapades, of this Millara was sure.

 

"I'm much obliged." - she added as an afterthought.

 

The man nodded in acknowledgement.

 

"What's on the stove?"

"Chicken stew. With buckwheat groats and dumplings."

"Sounds good. Are you the cook?"

"Yes."

 

Millara grimaced inwardly; she has spend the better part of the early afternoon sitting in the cold scullery, peeling vegetables and plucking the chicken. It was arduous everytime, and doubly so today; she just wished she wasn't in the yard when the bird was killed, and didn't see neither its blood spraying on the snow nor its headless corpse still jerking and twitching for the long minutes afterwards.

Knowing that the chicken had to die so there will be dinner was one thing; witnessing the deed was an entirely different matter.

 

"I will have some, then. And wine."

"Of course, sir."

 

She brought in his order and set to serve a group of women - a mother and her two daughters, Millara guessed from their shared features, all reddish ringlets and dark, beady eyes. She brewed a fresh pot of rosehip tea - with cloves, honey, and just a 'wee touch of something stronger' - for Hull who popped in with his nose red and sore throat; buttered a couple of toasts for one of the stablemen - Merret - and then proceeded with the usual chores: cleaning dishes, kneading dough for tomorrow's bread, and checking the stock of supplies in the pantry.

The afternoon was quiet, and slowly dragged into evening. She lighted the oil lamps and swept the floor, vaguely aware of the man's - now the inn's sole patron - presence. He sat in the room's corner, looking thoughtful and rather gloomy, and opened his mouth mostly to order more wine.

Which was often.

To be honest, Millara - who, in her own opinion, has seen more than her fair share of staggering, babbling drunks - was almost impressed. It didn't seem that alcohol had much effect on him. Yet, she couldn't say she was completely at ease - every time she turned, she could feel the man's eyes on her. It made her skin prickle and cheeks flush, heart fluttering in her chest fast like a bird's.

 

With a sigh, she went to get more wood, then squatted in front of the fireplace. She heard the man stir in his seat.

 

"How long it has been since you came to live in here?"

 

Millara took a poker and pushed at the smouldering coals, making them burn brighter and sending sparks flying high up into the chimney. She was sure her cheeks were positively red by now; it had very little to do with heat.

 

"Forever." - she said - "I have no memories of other places. I was only a babe when father and I settled in Candlekeep."

"You and your father, you don't look much alike at all."

"Of course we're not. That's because he is my foster-father. We're... We're not really related. Not by blood."

 

The man let out a little snort

 

"Yes, you said so before. I would have been truly surprised if an old man like him somehow fathered a kid, let alone a comely daughter."

 

Millara has always thought her father beautiful - with the softest blue-grey eyes and warm voice - but decided to ignore the remark, unkind as it was.

 

"My mother was a half-elf." - she offered instead - "She was from Waterdeep, I think."

"You think?"

"She died shortly after I was born. Father knew her, but doesn't like to talk about her."

"Ah. What about your _real_ father?"

 

It was her turn to snort.

 

"I know nothing of him, nor want to." - she said fiercely - "My mother had me, and died all alone. Where was my _real_ father then? It was her friend - Gorion, my _foster_ -father - who promised her to take care of her child. He has never bothered to find me, so it's all there is to know. Why would I need someone like this in my life?"

"Why indeed."

 

Millara re-wrapped the shawl that started to slide off her arms, and pulled closer to the hearth, sullenly prodding at the glowing coals with her poker. A fabric's rustle reached her ears, followed by a barely-there creak of the floor.

The man left his place on the bench and came to crouch beside her. She stole a quick glance at his hands as they reached towards the flames, fingers playing with empty wine glass. If her skin was kind of dusky, his was darker still.

 

"How about you?" - she asked, feeling suddenly bold - "Where are you from?"

"North."

"Icewind Dale?"

"Not quite this far north."

"Mirabar? Neverwinter?"

"Neither."

"Uhm. Right." - Millara pursed her lips, thinking - "So maybe Luskan? Or Baldur's Gate?"

 

A low chuckle rumbled deep in his throat.

 

"Ever heard what curiosity did to a kitty-cat?"

"I did. Now that's plain stupid." - she protested - "If people aren't supposed to be curious, what is the point of coming here in a first place?"

"Seeking and gaining knowledge is not exactly the same as trying to delve in things for one's sheer amusement, girl."

 

A faint warning note entered his voice. Millara was about to argue the case anyway, when she remembered the porridge - her evening's meal - she has left cooking on the stove.

 

"Excuse me, sir. I need to go back to the kitchen." - she said, then added - "I shall be back soon."

"Fetch me more wine while you're at it."

"I will, sir."

 

She rose to her feet and run behind the bar, then into the adjoining room. There, she found Imoen - sitting on the upturned crate with a spoon in one hand, and a bag of sugared hazelnuts in the other - noisily slurping the porridge straight off the pot. Millara spotted an open jar of berry preserves, placed conveniently on a table within the girl's reach.

 

"It was _my_ supper, Immy." - she said accusingly.

 

Imoen smacked her tongue with a gusto, her lips curving into a shamelessly contented grin.

 

"No kiddin'? Good thing I came and saved it from burning, then, seein' as you were a tiniest lil' bit busy." - she winked and held a spoon in Millara's direction - "Help yourself and tell me _everything_."

"About what?"

 

The other girl let out an impatient huff.

 

"Don't be playin' dense with me. _He_ was talking to ya, didn't he? As in, _actually_ talkin' and not sneering at you every second word!" - her legs swung in excitement - "What was it about? C'mon now Millie, we're _best friends forever_ , and I want to hear it to the very last syllable!"

 

Millara couldn't help but roll her eyes. She knew Imoen better that that; eaves-dropping was just _so not_ beneath her.

 

"I'm nearly sure you've already listened to every syllable."

"So say that maybe, _just maybe_ , I did." - Imoen shrugged, unconcerned - "You tell me, though. Do you think he likes ya? I kept tellin' you he does, didn't I?"

 

Millara found a chair and a clean bowl, and started shovelling the porridge into her mouth, liberally mixing in the syrupy berries. It was barely warm anymore.

 

"Must you be so stubborn?" - she mumbled between the mouthfuls - "So he was drinking the wine, the Westgate Ruby to be precise, since the afternoon. And, after downing a dozen or so glasses, he has finally decided to be civil to a poor serving girl. The end."

"Wine sure does it to the people." - the other girl nodded at the shared knowledge, then added thoughtfully - "He said you were pretty, though."

 

She coughed, staring intently into her bowl's bottom.

 

"Did he."

"I guess, in a fashion." - Imoen popped a nut into her mouth - "He said he would have find it difficult to believe Gorion had a good-looking daughter of his own, or somethin' like that. Which, in other words, means he said he thinks _you_ _do_ look just fine. Sounds like a compliment enough for me."

"Hardly." - she replied tersely - "Anyway, I think I ought go back to see if he still wants another drink."

"Don't bother. Withrop is just outside the door; says we're closing for the night."

 

Millara put both her bowl and a pot into the washing basin, and poured hot water over them. She wiped her hands, and walked back into the inn's hall.

 

The man stood by the door - it seemed the wine eventually took its toll. He was leaning heavily against the wooden frame, reeling and very obviously drunk.

 

She hovered behind him for a moment, uncertain - then crossed the floor and lightly touched his arm.

 

"I'm sorry, sir." - she said - "It's closed."

"Heh. It's about the time, isn't it?"

 

He chuckled, turning around and grabbing her wrists without a word of warning, easily forcing her hands over her head. Another step, and he would have her pinned against the wall. Alcohol seemed to be seeping from the pores of his skin; she struggled feebly.

 

"Sir..? You're scaring me. Please let me go."

 

She had no time to get really afraid; the man wobbled on his feet  and hiccupped, releasing her; Millara fervently hoped he wasn't going to be sick.

 

"Do you need help?"

"No. You better run along, girl."

 

Millara held the door open for him, then watched the man as he staggered outside.

 

"Good night."

 

The man didn't answer.

 

The sky above the citadel was distant and starry - Selune's light shining bright, and the snow under her feet glittering like a diamond dust, bluish shadows lying long and thick upon the frozen ground.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_"She tried to stop me from fighting you."_

_"Who?"_

_"This woman. Tamoko."_

 

_She thinks she sees something - a flicker of emotion, raw and real - cross his features._

 

_"Ah."_

_"She told me you two were once lovers." - involuntarily, she stumbles over the word - "But when she insisted you should stop pursuing your goal, you've abandoned her for another. One who didn't give an ounce of concern about your wellbeing, and only wanted to share your power."_

_"Cythandria. Yes. I knew that."_

_"Then why?"_

 

_He spits._

 

_More blood._

 

_"So many questions, little sister." - he says - "You have came this far. Unscathed. And yet, you really didn't change a bit. You are still a foolish girl from Candlekeep."_

 

_Just speaking seems to cost him more and more effort; she frowns._

 

_"You're wrong here. I'm neither."_

_"Doesn't matter now, or does it?" - he spits again, trying to lift his head as to look at her - "But here, I will indulge your curiosity. Cythandria meant nothing to me; she was no one. A talented mage in her own right, I'll give her that, and a piece of willing flesh, ready to part her thighs at my beck and call. Skilled in the matter, too."_

 

_She cringes at that, and the man's lip curl a little in a ghost of a familiar mocking grin. Even in defeat, he is saying these things on purpose, words designed solely to cut and stab and hurt her, now that his sword is useless and his arms weak and limp._

 

_..."Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me"..._

 

_A lie. They do, still._

 

_She swallows and schools her face into a blank mask._

 

_"I killed her."_

_"I guessed as much."_

_"The other one, she loved you though; she has helped me to hinder your plans first, but then changed her mind. Didn't want you to die here, in this gods-forsaken place. She waited for me by the temple's entrance."_

_"Tamoko." - he draws in a whistling breath - "Guess she's dead too, then."_

 

_She doesn't answer, and the silence between them grows long and heavy._

 

_"Tell me."_

 

_These two words, she knows they equal some other man's lifetime of begging._

 

_"Did you love her?"_

_"Tell me."_

_"No. She isn't." - she replies eventually - "I refused to fight her, and at last she understood you were too far beyond saving. She left."_

_"I see."_

_"I should have killed her, though." - she adds as an afterthought, remembering the anguished look in the woman's brown eyes - "Now she's fully aware that the monster you've became was of your own choice and making, she is broken. Killing her would have been a mercy."_

 

_This time it's the man who doesn't answer._

 

_She doesn't tell him everything, either. There is a whole story as yet unspoken._

 

_If she knew, the first assassin he sends after her probably would have also been the last._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Over the next tenday, Millara has grown accustomed to the man's presence, both in the inn when she was working - admittedly and to her silent relief, he never again got remotely as drunk as he did that one evening - and in the library's halls.

 

Sometimes, he would ask what she was reading, or which subject she has studied today, or just pause to give her a small nod when she run past him in the corridor - sometimes, he was ignoring her altogether. There were moments their eyes would meet briefly over the reading table, and she would point him to the right aisle when he was becoming increasingly frustrated by the maze of shelves and inability to find the particular tome. Millara would joke lightly how odd it seemed, that a warrior - not that he ever told her what his profession was, but of which she was getting increasingly sure - would show such an immense interest in the theology books.

He would glower at her then - she was never quite positive whatever the 'killer-mystic-beam-of-death-stare', as Imoen called it, was meant entirely in a deadpan manner or was he truly this devoted to the gods that he didn't find jests regarding them funny at all. It gave her goosebumps, and yet was thrilling in a way that was somehow hard to describe.

 

She has learnt his name.

 

At the inn, he would listen - between the orders and preparations, as the Moonfest was approaching steadily and she, Imoen, and Winthrop were all busy, cooking up the storm - when she talked about her plans for the future, then sneer and taunt her, calling them a child's fantasies, and herself a fool.

Sometimes, in quieter moments, Millara would even go as far as to join him briefly at the table he usually sat by, a cup of hot cider in her hand, its steam fragrant with cinnamon and star anise - she supposed Gorion would have disapproved, but Winthrop didn't share her father's views in the matter, and claimed the drink a best cure, as well as a tried-and-tested manner of prevention against the colds and flu.

 

One evening - the inn was empty, a near-constant occurence lately - armed with a feather duster, Millara was killing the time cleaning Winthrop's vast collection of bottles. Now merely a wall decoration, they once contained the finest wines and spirits, brought from all over the Realms: there was a bulbous, lacquered clay pot that used to hold dwarven moonshine, and a slim, graceful crystal flask encased in filigree wire-work of creeping vines that elves of Everesca used for their famous elverquisst, and a smooth, flame-coloured one that originated in a glass-shop somewhere in Surthay.

 

She was perched on the ladder's top, humming under her breath and leaning to sip at her cider every now and then, waves of pleasant warmth spreading all over her body. The man stood by the counter, watching her work with a moderate interest. It didn't bother her anymore; at least not in the way it did once.

 

Actually, she enjoyed the attention he was giving her.

 

Millara returned the last bottle into its place, and with a little grunt of satisfaction, set to climb down. The ladder wobbled and she squeaked, panicked, clinging to the rungs.

 

An amused snicker reached her ears.

 

"Heh. Someone's got squiffy, I see."

"It's not that! The ladder is old and warped, is all."

"But of course." - the man said, not clarifying whatever he meant the state of her, or the ladder's.

 

Her foot slipped, narrowly missing a step and the ladder wobbled again, the floor zooming in and out of focus. Her hands clenched tighter around the wooden frame.

 

"I... I can't." - she complained in a small voice - "It's shaking."

"Gods, how come a woman can be this ungainly?"

 

He walked behind the bar, both his arms extended and a slightly annoyed frown on his face.

 

"Come on now, silly. I'll get you."

 

She hesitated, then swallowed and let go of the ladder - he lifted her easily, as if she weighted nothing at all, his muscular body warm and strangely, comfortingly solid.

 

Unthinking, Millara closed her eyes and threw her hands around the man's neck, and kissed him.

 

His lips felt soft against hers, unresponsive at first - he went completely still. She persisted though, and when finally he kissed her back, it was nothing as she has imagined at all - not slow and gentle like it was described in her romance books, but forceful and harsh, feral even, all nipping teeth and hot, restlessly eager tongue searching her open mouth.

 

It was much, much better.

 

Millara clutched at his tunic, hearing her hairpin crack and feeling his fingers entangle in her now loose curls. She gasped when he pressed her hard against the wall, her skirts and aprons riding up as she wrapped her legs around his hips, his other hand tugging impatiently at her dresses' neckline.

 

A sudden clatter of metal on stone made her jump, her eyes snapping wide open.

 

She met his stare, light-headed, both confused and elated. The man's eyes were fixed on hers, gleaming and dark with desire - or at least she thought so until he shoved her away.

 

"You little fool." - his voice was a menacing whisper - "It's a dangerous game you play. You have no idea."

 

With that, he stalked out, leaving her alone in the room.

 

Millara kneeled down on the floor, squinting in the dying firelight as she begun to gather scattered spoons and forks - her hands shaky, throat thick, and her heart heavy in her chest.

 

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

* * *

 

 

Next day, Millara has only seen him in passing, as she rushed down the spiralling staircase - already late for her shift at the inn, with her apron rumpled and hair in a wild tangle, still damp after washing.

 

He stood on the landing, apparently talking to Gorion.

 

She slowed down, her heart skipping an anxious beat as she approached them.

 

"Good morning, father. Sir."

 

The man merely arched an eyebrow, but promptly and expectedly, her cheeks turned warm, too warm for her liking - this seemed to became something of an annoying habit and to make everything worse, the one alternating only with her making a bumbling fool of herself.

 

"Hello, miss."

 

Millara had no idea how just two words - a perfectly ordinary greeting, and one delivered in a flat, detached tone at that - could possibly have such a disparaging effect. She looked down to study the tips of her shoes - the sloppily tied laces already coming undone - and jerked when a hand came down to lightly pat her head, but it was only her father's, his touch soft and gentle and well known.

 

"Child, but surely you aren't going out like this, are you? It's freezing."

 

_Child._

 

Unconsciously, her fists clenched, and for a first time in her entire life, Millara wished father didn't call her that in front of other people. Especially not _him_.

 

With her mind's eyes, she could almost see the man smirk.

 

"I must." - she mumbled - "Winthrop's going to kill me if I won't show up to help him with that pie for the feast. I'll wear a hood."

 

Millara heard Gorion sigh and utter a short phrase in a language she didn't quite understand, but knew nevertheless. Her skin tingled, a rush of foreign energy that could only be magic shimmering in the air around her and disappearing almost as fast. She couldn't help but grin at that, indignation already forgotten.

 

"Father! And here I thought you were so dead set against gratuitous use of the arcane."

 

Gorion chuckled, his lined face creasing even more and eyes aglow with a hint of mischief - when he smiled like this, Millara found it so easy to imagine him younger, carefree, an adventurer he was before he settled down.

 

"My dear, a little protection spell used here and there to make one's life easier won't wear the Wave, and I won't have you risk getting pneumonia. Go quick now. It will only last a short while."

"Yes, father."

 

The man stayed silent during their exchange, and she scurried away, not daring to steal another look at him.

 

When she has reached the kitchen, Winthrop greeted her with a meaningful stare and immediately put her to work. Millara prepared the leaven and - after she covered it with a clean towel and put it aside, waiting for the dough to rise - she blanched almonds, then dutifully rubbed their brown skins off, chopped dried plums and raisins, and got smacked with a spoon for munching on sweet, plump dates.

 

As the day progressed, she has baked the mince pie - it came out of the oven overly browned and crispy at the edges - then cooked a fish chowder - which turned out a bit too watery - and in a meanwhile, managed to shatter two wineglasses, a soup bowl, and the last pot of honey-marinated onions.

 

"Ye gods, what's wrong with ya today, lass?" - Winthrop shook his head at the damage - "Good thing you'll be off soon, otherwise I would've ended up needin' to replace all my pottery."

"I'm sorry."

"Well, go sweep the floor now. And do try to not break anything, hmm?"

"Fine."

 

All this time, Millara tried to refrain from glancing towards the door every now and then - and failed miserably.

 

"Aww, doncha fret. It's early still." - the inkeep winked at her knowingly; she decided it would be best to ignore his remark.

 

The man used to call in for a meal around the midday if she was working the morning shift and would sometimes accompany her on the way back to the library, and so she kept jumping at every rustle, biting her lip, waiting, hoping - for a reason she couldn't name - to spot his familiar figure entering the inn.

 

To no avail. Her shift has ended; she has tarried behind the bar for another while, pretending to be busy cleaning some non-existent stains, but still he didn't come.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Millara sighed, putting away the comb and regarding herself in a mirror.

 

Freshly brushed, her hair was rather pretty - reaching halfway down her back, glossy ashen curls, so pale they were nearly white. She thought it a pity - not to mention a huge injustice - that it wouldn't stay like this through the entire day and, as the hours passed, her head seemed inevitably bound to gain the sad appearance of an exceptionally messy haystack.

 

She took off her apron and the old green frock she was only using for work now, slung both over the chair's armrest, and leaned to retrieve her change of clothes.

 

A movement caught her attention - shyly, Millara glanced into the mirror once again.

 

Her skin was smooth, a fading tan thus far visible in a soft, flickering lamp's light, and although still petite, she has obviously filled up this past year, her figure becoming distinctly a woman's. People begun to notice - Phyldia has shown Millara how to alter her dresses, and Winthrop often joked how a better part of the patrons was now coming to the bar solely to take a peak at his lovely serving girls. Strangers would stop to ask who she was and compliment her, sometimes. She wasn't ugly - he said so, too, she thought absentmindedly.

 

Millara gasped and quickly pulled a petticoat on - it was about the right time, too, for not a minute later, the door swung open and Imoen barged into her room, not waiting for an invitation whatsoever and diving straight for Millara's newly made-up bed.

 

"Oy, so what's up with ya, Millie?"

"Immy! How many times did I tell you to knock first?"

"Dozens. Still moping, eh?"

 

She stretched and rolled to rest on her stomach. Millara shook her head, instantly vexed.

 

"Give me a break. I'm not-"

"Ol' Puffguts says ya came to work sullen, and then, it got worse." - the other girl continued, chewing at the end of her braid - "I hears you nearly blown the house down with all your sighin', eh?"

"Is this what Winthrop told you?"

"Yep. He thinks it's all 'cause your new pal, ya-know-who, didn't come in today. That true?"

"Puffguts ought to mind his own business."

 

Imoen shrugged, undeterred.

 

"I saw you two only this last evening, lookin' awful chummy, so... What's wrong now?"

"Nothing. Seems he's not talking to me anymore, is all."

"Did you two got into a fight?"

"Not exactly. It was him who got mad at me."

"So will ya tell me _what_ happened?"

 

Millara sat down with a sigh. Maybe this was what she needed, to confess to someone. Imoen was her friend, a sister in every way but one - and a blithe spirit she was, she would surely tease her mercilessly for another tenday, but at least she would listen and with a measure of luck, understand.

 

"If you as much as try to make fun of me, I swear I'll beat the raw crap out of your arse. Got my drift?"

"Ya love me and wouldn't do such a thing, but fine, promise I won't." - Imoen waved her hand dismissively - "Cross my heart and want to die if I do. So?"

"I kissed him."

 

Imoen bounced up, her mouth agape.

 

"What?!" - she exclaimed - "You're serious..?"

"Uhum."

"You must absolutely tell me what was it like!"

"How about: no. And don't make me regret telling you anything at all."

"Aww, don't be like that, Millie!" - Imoen crawled closer and playfully nudged Millara's ribs - "If ya tell me, I might just tell you how I kissed Hull the other day."

 

It was Millara's turn to blink and stare at the other girl.

 

 _"Hull..?_ Why him, of all people..?"

"And why not?" - she said lightly - "Though, truth to be told, I've only done so to shut 'im up before he got curious 'bout what was I doin' down in the garrison."

"Raiding the coffers, I assume."

 

Imoen snorted and stuck her tongue at Millara.

 

"Pfft! Look who's talkin'! Besides, I've only wanted to check what's inside. Boring old stuff mostly, some small coins... Anyway, I was about to leave when Hull caught me, and so I told him I came 'cause I wanted to see him, and kissed 'im. My, you should've seen his face! He stammered like ya won't believe." - she giggled - "That's the story. Now your turn. Tell me, _in detail_."

 

Millara told her.

 

When she finished, neither the long, thoughtful look nor Imoen's next question surprised her.

 

Not really.

 

She's been already asking herself - only to come out with the same answer.

 

"Uhm, Millara... What do ya think you would've done if, like, there was no things fallin' off the shelf to interrupt you?"

"I don't know."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Quit hiding. It's growing tiresome."

 

She froze, huddling closer to the statue's marble leg - this particular carving was so large it must have obscured her from the view, and the floor in this area was snugly carpeted. Millara was so quiet she was certain there was no possibility he could have hear her.

 

Yet, he did.

 

He stood with his back turned, his arms crossed as seemed to be per his custom, waiting - and so, she let out a small, resigned huff and came out from behind the sculpture, perching on the top of its high pedestal instead, her legs swinging nervously in the air.

 

"How did you know I was there?"

 

The man snorted.

 

"You've been trailing behind me like a lost duckling for a better part of the evening. What do you want?"

 

Millara hesitated; her palm wandered into her apron's pocket, feeling the stiff, neatly folded piece of parchment.

 

A messenger came just a little earlier, bringing in a stack of letters. He left them in the usual place at the inn - where the recipients could find them with an ease - and after recognising the man's name amongst these of Candlekeep's residents, she has intercepted it. This way, he would have to stop ignoring her.

 

The wax seal that secured it was cherry red, and the sigil unknown.

 

He must have grown impatient with her prolonging silence; Millara squirmed when he closed the distance between them in two swift steps, casually crossing her personal space. Their eyes were almost on the same level now, the amber-gold of his irises compelling like that of a predatory animal, a wolf or an owl - and just about as warm.

 

"Speak. Or did cat get your tongue?"

 

She shook her head, her palms trembling slightly as she fumbled with her apron's fabric, finally managing to take the letter out and hastily handing it out to him.

 

"Here. I brought you this."

 

The man frowned. Millara wasn't sure whatever it was real or nothing but a trick of a light, but the look that flitted through his features was troubled, if not downright angry.

 

He held the message up to briefly examine the seal.

 

"Is everything alright?" - she asked, reaching to touch his arm and retracting her hand almost as fast - "Oh. Sorry."

"So you have filched my letter and then decided to seek me out to give it to me. Did you read it?"

"Of course not!"

 

The man rolled the parchment and put it into the pouch on his belt, then stooped down. His fingers closed around her wrists.

 

"What do you want, girl?"

"I don't know!" - she blurted, her gaze involuntarily shifting to rest at the man's mouth when, quietly, she repeated - "I don't know."

 

It was curved into a taunting grin that under any other circumstances, Millara would find infuriating - unsettling - but definitely not beguiling as it was. She swallowed hard.

 

"Really? It seems like you do."

"I just... Why? You won't talk to me after I-"

"Heh. I'm talking to you _now_." - he cocked his head, as if considering - "Do you regret?"

"No."

"Fool."

 

Millara took a shuddering breath when a calloused thumb dragged over her lips. A gesture was slow and deliberate, full of hidden meaning that was only becoming apparent now as she saw the man's gaze darken, his pupils dilated, deep black pools drawing her in like a tar-pit trap. Her heart hammered in her chest faster than ever, racing pulse unbearably loud in her ears, a strangest sensation licking at the hollow of her belly, hot and cold at once.

 

She leaned forward, closing her eyes, the tip of her tongue barely brushing against his mouth. The man's grip on her tightened, pinning her down to where she sat.

 

He was right. She knew what she wanted, all along.

 

"Tsk. Carefull, girl, I might not content myself with just a kiss."

 

It was a fair warning - still, she didn't as much as think to protest when he pulled her close and kissed her deep, there at the feet of Alaundo's white marble statue, one of many decorating the prophet's past home. Millara didn't flinch when the man eventually freed her and instead his palm wandered up to cup her breast, squeezing lightly, the other snaking around her waist.

 

She clung to him - dazed, breathless, her fingers stroking up and down his flanks and hard abdomen - and only wriggled away when a sound of somebody's footsteps echoed through the empty corridor.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Is this man bothering you, my dear?"

 

They sat at the table in her father's chamber, and Gorion choose to speak as she was pouring tea for their supper. It cost Millara a lot of willpower to keep her hands steady. Still, a single drop splashed on the table cloth, leaving behind a yellowish stain.

 

She turned and looked at him with a small, hesitant smile.

 

"Whoever do you mean, father?"

"Millara."

 

Gorion wagged a finger at her, apparently not fooled.

 

"Y-yes?"

"You know all too well who I am talking about." - he sighed - "Winthrop spoke to me only yesterday, and I'm under impression that this man takes an undue interest in you."

 

But of course. Millara pouted and put the kettle away, resuming eating. At least, trying to. She spooned some honey into her teacup, added a squeeze of lemon and picked up a piece of bread, sullenly tearing the crust off.

 

"He's only talking to me and being nice, and Winthrop is such a tattletale." - she said - "And one much worse than all these old wives he's so fond of making fun at, to boot."

 

The first part was _definitely_ stretching the truth long and wide, but she has hoped the playful remark would lighten up his mood.

 

It didn't.

 

"Winthrop might find it hilarious, but I am concerned." - Gorion admitted, shifting in his seat - "You grew up here where everyone cares about your wellbeing and will protect you if the need be, but this doesn't necessarily means it is going to be the same with strangers."

 

Millara winced inwardly, sensing where exactly it was heading to.

 

Her father's next words only served to prove it.

 

"You are young, Millara. While you may be simply showing kindness, some men might misunderstand and try to take advantage of it. I don't want you to get hurt."

 

She ducked her head to stare into plate before her, with bits of bread arranged into disorderly pile and a half-eaten chunk of Arabellan cheddar left on the side.

 

"Father, please." - she mumbled - "I can understand you're worried, but there's seriously no need to, and this is just... Awkward."

 

Gorion let out a small chuckle, the sound lacking humour, more rueful than anything else.

 

"Child, you may believe it or not, but it is awkward for me, too. You are my only daughter, and it is not everyday that I am compelled to talk about, well, these things." - he sighed - "It seems to me it was only yesterday that you were a sweet babe, learning to walk. I wish there was a woman who would guide you... Still, as there isn't one, I thought it necessary. I don't mean to embarass you, my dear, I simply want you to be safe."

 

Millara stood up and quickly came behind his chair to hug him.

 

"Thank you." - she leaned and planted a kiss on Gorion's cheek - "And don't worry, surely nothing bad is going to happen to me."

 

Her father reached to ruffle her hair.

 

"So, who is this man?"

"An apprentice swordsman. He's from further north."

"Ah."

"I know he seems gruff, but is really more civilised than he looks."- she added lightly, relieved that the conversation has came to an end so fast - "And anyway, he'll be leaving Candlekeep soon, isn't it?"

"Yes. Tomorrow morning, I believe."

 

Millara felt as if someone punched her in the gut.

 

She froze, then slowly nodded, turning away to clean the table - collecting empty dishes and leftovers, and fervently hoping Gorion won't see her face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was snowing all night, and the morning came dull and grey, the sky overcast and air crisp with frost, the fresh salty scent of the sea mingling with that of chimney smoke and stables.

 

Shivering in a woolen cloak she hastily thrown only over her nightdress, Millara stood in the gateway yard. It was quiet, not even dogs were barking, and empty save for the two guards - Andreas and Todd, yawning and sleepily rubbing their hands - the man, and his horse.

 

He was leaving indeed.

 

Clad in a heavy leather armour with a steel breastplate under a winterwolf's fur cloak, the man looked much fiercer than he did in borrowed scholar's robes he wore over the past few weeks.

 

He stood nearby - apparently busy, fussing at the straps and fastening clasps of the saddlebags, adjusting the reins, and paying her little attention.

 

The horse was a dark bay, all muscles like its owner and equally ill-tempered, flattening its ears in warning when she approached and then nearly taking her fingers off along with a shrivelled winter apple she was trying to bribe it with.

 

"Is it a stallion?"

"Heh. Look down, girl. It's quite noticeable, or isn't it?"

 

It _was_ noticeable.

 

She shook her head absently, standing on her tiptoes and reaching to touch it's muzzle. The animal snorted against her gloved palm, it's breath coming out in a cloud of steam.

 

"It's so large."

 

The man turned to look at her, a corner of his mouth pulling up in a suggestive grin.

 

"Ah?"

"The horse." - Millara clarified in a rush, mentally kicking herself - "I meant your horse."

"I'm sure you did, beetrot-face."

 

One of the guards - Todd - joined them, his nose raw and lips chapped. He gave Millara a mildly curious glance before clearing his throat and adressing the man.

 

"So ye's certain that you'll be leavin' now, sir? It doesn't seem it's gonna stop snowin' anytime soon, and they say there's a blizzard comin' on us again."

"I am. Open the gate."

 

The guard left, and the man patted his horse's side, checking the stirrups for the last time.

 

Her throat thick, Millara watched him mount the steed. The citadel's gate opened with an unpleasant, rusty creak.

 

"So long, Millara."

 

Distracted, she thought it was maybe a third time he has called her by name.

 

"Will you ever come back?"

"I don't know."

"I'll miss you."

"Fool."

 

He urged the animal forward, and she bolted towards the watchtower, almost slipping over a frozen puddle and running up the narrow stairs.

 

She stayed there, huddled by the window - rocking on her heels and shivering with cold - gazing into horizon until the distant pines swallowed both the horse and rider and she could see them no more, snow falling down quietly but steadily, the hoove prints on the ground quickly fading away.

 

Soon, they disappeared altogether. Without trace - it was as if they never were there in a first place.

 

* * *

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (So, this chapter is short and rather slow, but I needed it the way it is. Another one coming soon, seeing as there are people who actually seem to be reading it ^^. And also... Dear Guests, thank you for leaving kudos on my work, it sure left me with that warm fuzzy feeling :))

* * *

 

 

 

The Moonfest was a subdued affair - it came and was gone, and with it the last visitors, the citadel empty save for its usual residents.

 

Days grew shorter and darker still, with winter sun watery and distant, lacking warmth, and in the nights the sky was ablaze with northern lights, their ghostly colours like a shifting, shimmering tapestry - now green, now blue, now purple, tiny cold sparks scattered across the vast expanse.

 

The inn stayed closed for the major part of the week now, leaving Millara with far too much spare time and altogether nothing to do. She was occupying herself with reading, and when the weather allowed it - which was getting increasingly rare, for the snowfalls kept coming even heavier and frost ruled the land undivided, indifferent to the trees moaning and cracking in its iron grip - she and Imoen would go sledging and ice-skating, and fishing over the frozen pond where an air hole has been hacked away.

 

With persistence and some petty bribery, she was able to talk Fuller into giving her archery lessons and spent most early mornings in the practice yard, shooting at painted barells and straw-stuffed dummies, becoming increasingly good at it.

 

She set up a fox trap and spent hours perfecting it, for several days on. The animal must have been stuck inside the keep's walls since the last time the gates were open and seemed inclined to visit the chicken coop until there was not a single chicken left. It managed to avoid the simpler snares so far, and so, Reevor asked her for help, or rather ordered Millara to do something. She was glad to accept the challenge.  
It wasn't as if the dwarf quartermaster really liked or particularly cared about their flock - for it wasn't beneath him to kick a bird straying under his feet, but the idea of going on without scrambled eggs for breakfast was something he would quite clearly avoid. She has later learnt that the trap has worked well indeed, the furry culprit caught alive and whole - to her chagrin, Reevor was first to find the animal the following morning and instead of releasing it back into the wild, he mercilessly beaten it into a bloody pulp.

 

At dusk, Millara would sometimes sit alone by the fireplace - curled snugly under a blanket, a steaming cup of tea in her hands - watching the flames, listening to the wind as it screamed and howled high up in the chimney, and dreaming.

 

She has silently acknowledged her crush, foolish as it was, and although she realised it was improbable she would ever see the man again, she longed for him nevertheless, in spite of logic and reason missing his quips and taunting grins, their talks about little nothings, the way he watched her. Wondering what might have been if he didn't leave quite so suddenly, remembering how he kissed her on that last day, how his arms felt wrapped around her waist, how his calloused fingers stole under her shirt's hem to brush over bare skin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_His skin feels clammy, cold._

 

  
_She shifts on her knees, her lips pursing, gaze intent._

 

  
_"Look at me."_

 

  
_Tension oozes from him - she nearly can see it, like dark tendrils writhing in the air around them, and briefly entertains the idea it is simply her laying hands on his body that disconcerts him so._

 

  
_Even though she is nothing but gentle so far._

 

  
_Or maybe - just maybe - it is precisely because she is._

 

  
_She runs her fingertip around his wound, closing her eyes. She does not need to see him; she hears and feels everything as she clutches the arrowshaft and tugs it up in a tiny, swift flick of her wrist._

 

  
_How he shudders and recoils._

 

  
_How he gasps, a whimper building in the back of his throat._

 

  
_A long, silent moment passes before she speaks again, leaning now to stroke his face._

 

  
_"Does it hurts?"_  
_"Ah. And just what do you think?"_  
_"Yes. A lot. I hope it does."_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nightal passed and Hammer came, and they - along with a group of villagers from the nearby settlement - held a bonfire at the citadel's outskirts to celebrate the Midwinter, the flames reaching nearly as high as the walls, fish and game hens roasting on the spits, mulled cider and perry flowing freely to warm the bodies and lift the spirits.

 

Shortly after, Millara fell sick with scarlet fever.

 

Calm and well in the morning, by the evening she was barely conscious and hallucinating wildly of morbid, grisly things: laughing skulls, bloodied footprints on snow, open graves with half-rotted corpses that writhed with maggots. She trashed between her sweat-drenched bed sheets for two days and nights, her head throbbing with pain, Gorion and Parda keeping watch at her bedstead - burning juniper, rosemary and sage, casting small healing spells, feeding her thin broth and bitter-tasting herbal concoctions when she was awake.

 

Thanks to their combined efforts, Millara was recovering quickly, the fever gone for good and rash disappearing, but still she was bound to bed and the solitude of her room to prevent the disease from spreading further.

 

It was only much later that she has accidentally learnt - the knowledge bitter - that the sickness was brought in by the same villagers who came to visit on Midwinter - and that it claimed six lives in their settlement, of children who were not privileged to have a mage and a priest to care for them.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Alturiak dragged on slowly, but finally gave place to Ches with it's unpredictable weather, red sunsets, sudden sleet falls and thick morning mists.

 

Once again, spring arrived into the Western Heartlands - snow has melted away, the Lion's Way became passable, and short time before the spring equinox, a first caravan and first visitors came. Millara, along with Imoen and a new kitchen help - a jovial, portly woman named Lanya - resumed work at Winthrop's.

 

Tarsakh was warm, if a little windy, and a busy month - they were repairing the fences, weeding, preparing new garden beds and planting flowers and vegetables, and she shared her time between the studies, attending the inn, working outside and her archery training.

 

Fuller was so satisfied with the progress she has made during the past few months that he practically forbade her to quit now, allowing her to practice alongside the younger watchmen, with both bow and a light crossbow, and teaching her how to craft her own arrows, which wood to use for their shafts, how to season it and how to cut and dye the quills with madder, indigo and woad.

 

Sometimes he would take her outside the keep's walls so she could learn to shoot in difficult terrain - and, as she realised during one of these trips, at things that moved.

 

She shot a young buck one day - she aimed well, and by the time they got to the spot it fell, it was dead, dark eye open, glistening like an onyx bead under the fringe of lashes. In equal parts fascinated and revolted, Millara watched the guard take out a hunting knife and slice it into its flesh - soon there was no buck, only a pile of steaming guts and chunks of meat wrapped in raw hide, ready to be taken into the kitchens. Fuller dipped fingers in the animal's blood and she swallowed back tears as he smeared it in twin strips across her cheeks. For her first kill, he told her solemnly - this, and that there was far too many deer around, damaging trees in orchards and early crops in the neighbouring villages.

 

Millara wasn't sure why, but when they returned to the keep, her father looked at her oddly, apprehensively, his face unusually grim - an expression that only softened to the known, concerned one when he later found her crying her heart out in the stables. Indeed, said Gorion, there were times it was necessary to take a life - it wasn't as if she has never eaten venison before - although she should always remember to do so only for a good reason.

 

The following night, she has dreamed of a wild chase through the woods, flurry of green and brown flitting before her eyes and sharp steel, and her own hands cutting into deer's skin, its flesh parting with wet sloshy sound and warm crimson trickling between her fingers as they clenched around its heart - only, in her dream, it was still beating.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_His eyes take over that strangely glazed, unfocused appearance she has learnt to know and seen so many times before that she recognises it instantly._

 

  
_"Don't. Don't you dare. Not just yet."_

 

  
_She leans to slap him and stays her hand in the last moment, frowning and reaching to her belt instead._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mirtul was nearing its end, and Millara turned seventeen, her birthday celebrated with sweet manycherries wine and daintily frosted almond pastries. She sat in the inn's common room, face flushed with joy as she unwrapped gifts - a new copy of her favourite fairytale book, a bottle of lemon balm perfume, a short bow with full quiver to match, a hand-carved ivory comb and protection ring - each a token of love and care.

 

About a tenday later, she was out in the keep's grounds, feeding chickens. It was a bright afternoon that came after the storm earlier on, the air fresh, rich with scents of new grass and damp earth. Millara stood in the open, reaching into a basket and throwing around handfuls of grain every now and then, basking in the sunlight and humming to herself.

 

A sudden rustle - sound of flapping wings and an outraged clucking - broke her out of her reverie. More startled than alarmed, Millara straightened, looking for the source of commotion.

 

It was then that she spotted him, a dark brawny figure in a chainmail glittering under a red woolen cloak. Strolling down the middle of a carrot patch and surrounded by flock of squabbling speckled hens, no less.

 

Annoyed scowl adorning his face was familiar and nothing short of what she has remembered.

 

Her hands flew to her mouth in a momentary shock - chickens and work instantly forgotten, basket landing under her feet, wheat spilling out much to the birds' delight.

 

Millara couldn't have cared less.

 

Without thinking, she has sprinted towards the man, flinging her arms around his waist, nuzzling into his chest, ignoring the cold metal scraping against her cheek.

 

"...You came back... So happy... I knew you would..."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_"Drink."_

 

_The man coughs and gags as she forcefully pours some of the liquid into his mouth._

 

 _"Go to Hells, girl."_  
_"Someday, yes. Now drink."_

 

  
_He takes a breath, blinking furiously._

 

  
_"Isn't it better now?"_

 

_Just a little sip, a drop. One enough to make his eyes burn brighter, more alert. Not enough to do anything more._

 

  
_"An old torturer's trick. Daddy would've been proud."_  
_"I still have questions."_  
_"I see. Like what?"_

 

  
_She bits on her lip, hesitating. She should not care nor want to know - yet, she wants, needs it._

 

_Badly, terribly - and she is afraid of what she might hear._

 

  
_He snorts._

 

  
_"Hurry up. That dram of healing potion won't stretch me to last forever. Ask."_

 

 

_Eventually, she does. Her voice comes out cracking, barely above a whisper, and she resents herself for it._

 

 

_It is not as if the answer could change anything._

 

  
_"Did you hate me all along? Even then?"_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a sweet while to get a new chapter put together, but hey, this story is still alive :) First of all, I want to thank you for all these kudos - means a lot to me, it really does.
> 
> Vericia, thank you so much for your kind words. I hope you'll read this one day :)
> 
> I'm not sure if this chapter is interesting, but again, I needed it the way it is. There should be more going on next time ;)
> 
> Enjoy ^^

* * *

 

 

 

Spring was at its earnest, the inn crowded day and night, but Millara no longer worked as often as she did before, her father's insisting that she ought to focus on her scholarly pursuits rather than spend days in the scullery, plucking poultry and peeling vegetables - and so, most of her usual duties had been taken over by Lanya.

 

The new kitchen help proved to be a cheerful, busy bee - or rather a bumblebee, as Imoen came to call her when well out of the plump woman's ear's reach - and admittedly, a much better cook than Millara ever was, the crust on her pies golden as they left the stove, her soups rich and flavourful, her stews and roasts never too salty or burned at the pot's bottom.

  
Both Imoen and Millara soon begun to suspect that the old saying had it right and the woman was - either unwittingly or no - working her way through Puffguts's stomach and into his heart. It didn't escape their collective attention that the innkeep - a widower since over a decade - mellowed and became somewhat absentminded as of late, more concerned about his appeareance, ditching his beloved old apron in favour of a new one and sporting cleanly shaved face instead of familiar bearded looks they got used to over passing years. Always a jovial fellow, he now spend long hours in the kitchen, bantering with Lanya and discussing superiority of free range chickens to ones confined in coops, cooking with butter versus cooking with lard, braising against pan-frying and such - that is when he wasn't trying to pull pranks on the woman, which was ever so bad.

  
"The old man's gone _nuts_ , I'm tellin' ya Millie!" - Imoen complained - "He thinks I'm blind and won't see 'im tryin' to grab Miss Bumblebee's arse anytime he thinks he can get away with it, but I do, and then he does what? He sneaks behind 'er and sprinkles flour all over her hair like he's a concussed eight-year-old or somethin'!"

  
Millara nodded, listening to her rant as she weaved a pink ribbon into strawberry-blonde braid. Soft afternoon glow filtered through the narrow gaps in the wall, bringing out shimmering gold and red reflexes in her friend's hair - a thing Millara has always envied her.

  
They sat in the empty hay loft which, during the warmer months, served as their hideaway since they were children. There were cosy cushions and piles of blankets, and a collection of various items saved for their future journeys - obscure potions and petty gemstones, stolen maps, a rusty short sword, a dagger, an odd blessing scroll. A separate scroll hung nailed to a wooden beam, a covenant between two girls, signed and sealed with blood with all the solemnity a pair of twelve-year-olds was capable of.

 

"Guess I know now why she appears so ready to hit him with a rag."  
"Hah! Ya better guess who had to clean the kitchen after she hit him the last time." - Imoen dramatically pointed at herself - "He slipped and knocked over an _oil flagon_! He couldn't land on a milk pail or somethin', no, it just had to be bloody olive oil. Sure enough, it went flyin' and the stuff was about _everywhere_."  
"Well, I saw him bringing her daisies from the garden."

  
The other girl made a face.

  
"Ugh, poor ya. I'm glad I didn't get to see that one."  
"I think it's kind of nice."  
"Maybe." - Imoen turned and gave her a sly grin - "So, does this means the big guy gives ya flowers too, or is he still contented with starin' at you while sulking in some dark corner?"

  
Millara groaned; if there was a pastime Imoen was fond of more that making fun of Lanya and Winthrop, it was teasing her. Her friend didn't seem to ever grow neither tired nor bored with peppering her with uncomfortable questions and quips she seemingly must have been hoarding throughout the winter.

  
"You're well aware that he didn't bring me as much as a bunch of dead grass." - she muttered, looking at her hands - "And anyway, I'm nearly sure that even if he somehow teleported to my room at moondark, you would still know without needing to ask me."  
"True enough."  
"Now stop shaking your head, else I'll get your braid all wrong."  
"It's hilarious how gawky ya get every time you talk about 'im." - Imoen giggled - "Well, I told Gorion he ought to feel relieved that as long as the bald fellow hangs around ya, he's bein' the only one to be concerned with. Better one than half a dozen, no?"  
"You silly cow, you told father _what_?"

  
Millara almost finished the second braid. She tied a tight bow at it's end, checking whatever it would hold - and perhaps jerking it just a little too firmly.

 

"Ouch! Stop tuggin' my hair, thank you very much!" - the other girl squeaked - "C'mon, I had to tell him somethin', and besides I only spoke to Gorion 'cause he kept naggin' me. And, if ya want to know, asked specifically to keep an eye on you."  
"Ah."  
"Is there any need, then? Did ya kissed him again?"  
"Um. No."  
"Did _he_? Ya know, it's not as if I'm fond of this chap all that much, not to mention there're times he's givin' me creeps, but if ya do like 'im and ever wanted to..."

 

 Imoen rambled on and Millara just shrugged, unsure how to answer.

  
Truth to be told, she was meeting the man regularly since he arrived in Candlekeep nearly a tenday ago and yes, he would acknowledge her presence, spare a moment or two to talk to her or join her briefly at the table - but however often she felt his eyes following her, he didn't try to get closer to her, certainly not like the last year. Once he leaned to cradle her chin as she sat alone in a reading room, his gaze so dark and intent it made her shiver - right before he snorted and left without a word.

 

She wasn't sure what exactly was she expecting and tried to convince herself she didn't feel miserable, but she did.

 

"I don't really think so, Immy." - she said with a badly hidden sigh - "Here, have a look. Do you like it?"

 

Imoen took the proffered hand mirror and gazed into it, admiring Millara's work.

 

"I love it. Thanks a lot, Millie." - she beamed, getting to her feet - "Now quit moping. How about, we go and do somethin' _fun_?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Straight."  
"Four of a kind."  
"Bah. Beginner's luck."

 

Millara hid a grin behind fan of cards, pretending that her sole interest lied in the painted figures of their worn Talis deck, not in the slightest keen on admitting that, actually, she has learned to play old wizard, poker and talison quite a while ago - the watchmen company having more than just a little to do with the fact - or that this particular set, borrowed from Winthrop's stock, has been long time marked and was as familiar to her as the back of her own hand.

  
"Maybe." - she allowed, willing herself to look innocent - "Still, I won. Which means, you owe me one truth and ought to accept it with a good grace. _Unless_ you'd prefer a dare?"

 

The man treated her to a particularly dirty look, but Millara didn't mind.

  
Not long ago - right before they were respectively called on duty and wandering off to attend some obscure business, leaving their small company dwindling to the man and Millara - Imoen scored a royal flush and dared Hull to moon at the first person he meets upon leaving the inn. It was simply unfortunate that the said person happened to be the Gate Warden. All in all, Hull did not dare, thus becoming endebted to the girl - which, if anyone asked, could only ever mean troubles. Millara already pitied him, but it didn't change how thankful she felt towards her friend.

 

The game was Imoen's idea, and talking Hull into joining was easy enough. Millara needed some poking and prodding before she gathered the courage to ask the man if he would like to play too, and was surprised when - reluctantly, but still - he agreed.

 

  
"Well, I gotta go. I'll see ya later, Mills."

 

At least, that was the case before Imoen indeed turned to leave - giggling gleefully and winking at Millara in such an obvious manner, it left her with a mix of gratitude and strong desire to suffocate the girl at a nearest occasion. The man sat in his chair stone-faced, and didn't as much as batted an eye.

 

"So?"  
"Ask if you must."  
"Where did you get that scar? "

 

She pointed at the man's face, where an uneven silvery line run, chin to temple. The cut was clean and looked like an old scar, even though she knew it couldn't have been older than but a few months.

  
It wasn't there this last autumn.

  
A healing potion's work perhaps, Millara guessed - it bore no stitching marks. She has only seen how did these work twice, the stuff being difficult to craft and tricky to enchant, and thus expensive.

 

"A skirmish."  
"Oh. You fought in a battle?"  
"This is more than one question."  
"And this wasn't a proper answer." - she pouted - "Not even close to one. It's not fair."

 

The man let out a long-suffering sigh.

 

"You ever heard of Fields of the Dead?"

 

Millara scrunched her forehead, trying to recall bits and pieces of what she has remembered from her geography lessons.

 

"It's a small region east from Baldur's Gate, I think... Isn't that right? A farm country?"

 

He grimaced, now apparently disgusted by her ignorance.

 

"It's an ancient battleground, you little fool. Countless men were slaughtered there over the years."  
"Right... And?"  
" _And_ , it might have been centuries ago, but some of them obviously won't stay in the ground and still rise to roam these hills. That's precisely how I got this." - he indicated the scar, chuckling darkly - "Why girl, did I just see you shudder?"  
"What? No!"  
"Liar."  
"It's a bit drafty here, is all." - she said hastily, then asked - "Who deals now, me?"  
"I do. One last game, and when I win, I'll choose my prize."  
"Anything you like. _If_ you win."

 

The man shuffled the cards. Millara picked up hers and almost groaned.

 

"Heh. What's wrong with your poker face?"  
"Nothing. I draw two."  
"I stand."

 

None of the extra cards helped much. The game turned out piteously short, and to Millara's chagrin - not to mention outrage at being played on this particular deck - she has lost.

 

"Two pair."  
"Straight flush." - the man said triumphantly - "I'll have something from you now, I believe."  
"Right. And that will be..? Truth or dare?"  
"None of that childish nonsense. Where I am from, we bet for gifts and favours." - he scoffed lightly, a curious gleam in his eyes - "I want both. Don't move."

 

The man leaned over the table; his thumb tickled as it traced her collarbone, lingering at the hollow of her throat a little too long for the touch to be accidental. Millara felt a a wave of treacherous warmth creep on her cheeks, her studied bravado dissolving with every breath.

 

"Heh."  
"Y-yes?"  
"I quite enjoy seeing how far down this blush goes."

 

Spoken in amused murmur, his comment left her wishing she chose a different dress. Something simple that she used to wear everyday. This one was new, a delicate blue-grey wool with laced front and embroidered sleeves, and the first grown-up dress Millara came to own. Appraising herself in a mirror, she thought its cut rather flattering; right now, it seemed far too daring, its neckline showing too much of her - as Imoen put it - assets, however modest they were. It was her friend's idea, of course, to make Millara try to gain his attention this way. It would appear it worked out just alright - if it only wasn't for the teasing undertone in his voice, a tell-tale sign he was aware of the ploy.

 

The man fingered the fine silver chain that encircled her neck, fishing out a protection ring - afraid she would loose it while doing her chores, she wore it as a pendant instead.

 

"This shall suffice."  
"But... I got this ring from my father." - she protested - "I can't just give it away like that."  
"I won. Which means, you owe me a gift and a favour and ought to accept it with a good grace."

 

Millara sighed in defeat; she wouldn't have guessed her own words will come back to bite her so soon.

 

"Can't you chose something else instead?"  
"I could've. Still, I want this."  
"Fine. It's yours now."

 

She took the chain off and placed the ring on the tabletop, then watched him slip it into his belt pouch, trying not to not let him see how much giving it away hurt.

 

"Why, are you going to cry now?"  
"No." - she shook her head - "I'm not a child."  
"Heh."  
"You won. It's only fair."

 

The man smiled.

  
It wasn't the most reassuring smile Millara ever saw.

 

"As for a favour, I'll have it from you. But not today." - once more he reached towards her; she didn't expect him to lightly flick on her nose - "I have a word of advice, too. Next time you decide to mark your deck, girl, you may think about choosing something a little less conspicuous than hearts and stars."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Millara, you are not listening."

 

She blinked, looking away from the window.

 

It was a lovely day - sunny, cloudless. Vast expanse of the sea was calm, shimmering with blue and gold, a single ship barely visible as it ploughed through the waves, its white sails no more than a snowy fleck where the sky and water met, the sight filling her with yearning for faraway places she only ever read about.

 

A little closer, across the yard, she saw the man tending to his horse - he did so every day, likely not trusting the stableboy after he offended him only the first morning. The horse wasn't the same bay one he had left Candlekeep on the last time. It was a stallion also, but even bigger, and beautiful with its flowing mane and dark coat, smooth and glossy like a wet obsidian.

 

She has been specifically forbidden to ever go near it, for the horse soon became known for being vicious as a pit fiend, biting and kicking at the slightest provocation, and sometimes even without one. She asked the man why would he choose such an ill-tempered beast as his steed and was told it was a part of a warhorse's training, but somehow, Millara doubted it.

 

"Millara."

"I'm sorry, Karan."

"Say it in Elven, please."

" _Amin hiraetha,_ Karan _._ "

" _Lle tyava quel_?"

"I... Yes, yes I am." - she sighed - "I apologise, it's the weather. The pressure must be very high. I can't focus."

 

Karan glanced through the window and let out a good-natured snort.

 

"The pressure, indeed."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"You shoot well."

  
Startled at the unexpected rumble of his voice right behind her back, Millara had a hard time trying to regain composure. She exhaled slowly as she drawn the bowstring, but still let the arrow loose a blink too soon.

  
It cut through the training yard's length, swerving and missing the red-painted bullseye by few inches.

  
"Heh."

  
She didn't even bother to hide her chagrin.

  
It was the first time the man actually _praised her_ on something, _anything_ \- apparently, there wasn't this many feats she could impress him with - and when it happened, she just had to screw it over the very same moment.

  
Someone snickered, just out of Millara's sight - Todd, she was nearly sure, quietly resolving to pretend she was out of ginger root tea next time the guard turned in the inn's kitchen wine-sick, or maybe putting to use her extending knowledge of herb lore and spiking his ale with a measure of aloe juice to see who will laugh last.

 

An impatient rustle of a heavy-booted feet on gravel sobered her, petty thoughts of revenge instantly forgotten. She supressed a pout.

  
"It's... You distracted me, it's all. I didn't-"  
"Try again."

  
Millara sighed and nodded, reaching to the quiver slung at her hip - and found nothing, her arrows lying scattered around in the dirt. Which was just bound to happen, she thought sourly.

  
"Here, girl."

  
She turned to see the man kneel down and pick an arrow from the ground, then accepted it from his outstretched hand with a small, hesitant smile.

  
"Thank you."

  
He did neither move nor spoke, but Millara was secretly glad, not to mention relieved that - at very least - his expression seemed expectant rather than mocking her last failed attempt. She raised the bow, aimed shortly, and shot.

  
_Whoosh._

  
"Yes!"

  
She looked at him and smiled once more, this time happily and without restraint as the arrow hissed and hit the mark, its shaft and blue feathers - Millara felched her stock herself now, growing to consider its indigo tint as her trademark - disappearing amongst the thick bunch of the ones she shot before.

  
She was delighted and more than a little surprised to see the man actually grinning back, but it didn't last, not after he spoke again.

  
"You shoot well." - he repeated, his tone increasingly patronising - "How convenient it is that a barrel won't try to run or shoot back at you, isn't it?"

  
Millara frowned.

  
"It's only for practice. I can do better. I hunt sometimes, too."  
"Ah?"

  
He crossed his arms, regarding her with what Millara thought an infuriating combination of curiosity and disbelief.

  
To be sure, mostly disbelief

  
"Yes. I do."  
"That's a new one. I would much like to see it." - the man smirked - "Moreso I recall how you puked your guts out in the snow after glimpsing a bird being sent under a knife."  
"It was a year ago, and I-"

  
She broke off as an idea struck her - cautiously, Millara glanced around, stepping closer and lowering her voice even though the yard was near empty, with Todd gone to the armoury and the two remaining guards bickering and laughing and paying more attention to the straw dummies than they did to her.

  
"Would you really like it?"  
"Like what, girl? Speak clearly."  
"See me hunt." - she bit at her lip, excited - "I thought you said so. I mean, if you do... Can you keep a secret?"

  
The man scoffed.

  
"I'm not sure what foolishness you could've possibly came up with this time, girl, but I see you're almost dying to tell." - he shook his head - "Might as well be done with it."

  
Millara nodded eagerly.

  
"I was planning a trip outside tomorrow. I leave before dawn, just after a first rooster crows. You could join me if you'd like to, but no one must know."

  
It was true. Fuller no longer accompanied her - concluding that although stalking and chase indeed thrilled her, she wasn't exactly interested in learning a ranger's ways and inclined at utilising newly acquired skills in far different fashion. Which, to be precise, was lurking in the citadel's darker corridors and laughing in impish glee at people when they screamed and jumped and crossed themselves with holy symbols of their gods as she suddenly stepped out of the shadows. The senior guard kept tut-tuting and shaking his head at Millara's antics, pointing out how such horsing around was most unbecoming in an almost grown up woman - but still turned a blind eye to her sneaking outside the walls as long as no one else was aware of these escapades, and even helped her smuggle in the bigger game. She expressed her gratitude bringing him marten pelts, tender cuts of venison and young wood grouses that were Fuller's favourite delicacy, the watchmen spit-roasting them behind the garrison grounds where she and Imoen would sometimes join them on a quiet evening.

  
"A secret you say."  
"Yes." - she admitted reluctantly - "Otherwise, I'll be neck deep in troubles."

  
There was a long silence; the man cocked his head, watching her, his eyes once again unreadable. Millara squirmed and rocked at her heels as it dragged on, disheartened, increasingly sure he will refuse and deride her for being silly.

  
He didn't, giving her a curt nod instead.

  
"Fine. I'll go."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Whatcha grinnin' about, Millie?" - Imoen picked a stone from the nearby pile and threw it into the pond; it bounced off the surface several times, scaring a pair of swans before it sunk - "Ya look as if ya just won an unlimited cider pass in Winthrops annual draw, so you do."

"Kind of. But _b_ _etter._ "

"Lemme guess... Does the Big Bald has anythin' to do with it?"

"Very much so."

"Oh, finally. Good on ya."

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Millara was so excited, she found it difficult to fall asleep that night, turning and stirring restlessly amongst starched bed sheets - but eventually, sleep she did, and in her dream she walked down an unfamiliar path under rows of ancient pines, her steps sure and light as the ground under her feet suddenly blossomed with deep scarlet, dew threaded onto spiderwebs at the roadside glittering in sunlight like crimson tears, beautiful and obscene.

  
A strangest sound reached her - a voice - at once whisper-soft and deafening like a thunder's roar, boring straight into her brain in explosion of white-hot pain.

  
She woke up panting, a whimper building in the back of her throat, her pulse loud in her ears and nightshift drenched with sweat. It was still dark; Millara sat up on her bed, trying to shrug away a lingering sense of an alien, oppressive presence that left her so terrified. Cool breeze rustled the curtains and she shuddered as it touched her skin. Something clattered, falling from her lap and onto the wooden floor.

  
Cautiously, she leaned to retrieve it, recognising well-known shape of her hunting knife, its leather-wrapped handle and freshly sharpened blade. She frowned and blinked in surprise, certain she has left it on the dressing table, along with the rest of her gear as she readied it in the evening.

  
Through the open window, she heard a rooster crow.

  
Once. Twice.

 

* * *

 

 

 

She waited for him by the stables, squatting hidden in the shadow of the building's broad roof, at the same time excited and nervous, wondering if he will come afterall.

  
The eastern side of the sky was slowly taking on a pearlescent luminosity of pre-dawn, Selune's light a pale, perfect crescent and few stars still bright and visible, a sure sign of a fair day ahead.

  
She spotted him eventually, a tall figure crossing the courtyard to halt only a few steps away from her. Millara nearly giggled, watching him as he leaned against the stable's wall - apparently he didn't notice her, and she couldn't help herself but study the man's face as he stood there unaware, admiring his profile, chiseled nose and strong line of his jaw that didn't seem to soften even when he was alone. Without a noise, Millara straightened and crept along the wall, reaching to touch his arm.

  
Her fingers brushed his sleeve and she barely had time to dodge the blow as the man swung his fist in a vicious hook - he missed narrowly, but still she lost balance and fell, landing flat on her backside.

  
"Ouch." - she yelped - "Hey. It's just me."

  
The man - who looked just about to strike her again - stilled abruptly, the feral grimace on his face replaced with a glare that was only slightly less murderous as he stared at her scrambling inelegantly to her feet.

  
"Stupid wench." - he spat, not even bothering to help her up - "Don't you ever dare to try sneaking up on me again. Ever."

  
Millara let out a small, indignant huff as she proceeded with dusting herself off.

  
"How could I've known you'd try to swat me?"  
"Swat you, is that what you think I was going to do? I could have killed you, you brainless creature."

  
So could've I, she thought with a sudden, fierce resentment as she remembered the knife strapped to her belt in one particular spot where it was easy to unsheath it with a mere flick of her wrist, its forged blade sharp enough to cleanly separate layers of muscle, fat and skin, strong enough to cut deep into a bone.

  
"Is that clear enough?"  
"Yes."

 

She swallowed, the violent rush of emotions gone in a flash, leaving her confused and somewhat light in the head. She uncorked her hip flask and took a slow sip, then offered it to the man. He ignored it, still annoyed.

  
"Yes, and I'm very sorry." - she repeated; it wasn't exactly the case, but she much hoped to humour him - "I promise I won't do it again."  
"You'd better not to."  
"Shall we leave now? It's growing late. You can go through the small gate there. Just tell whoever is guarding it that you're off for a stroll and will come back soon. They can't see me but will let you pass with no trouble." - Millara explained - "I'll use a different way and meet you shortly by the western tower."

  
He snorted.

  
"I see now what was the ado about. You're not allowed to go outside, is that the matter?"  
"Precisely."  
"Heh. What if someone knew what you are up to?"  
"No one will. I did it many times before."  
"Getting cocky, are you not?" - the man tsked at her - "How is it that you get out, climb?"

  
Millara grinned smugly.

  
"Nope. There's a small hole in the wall behind the cowshed I've found a while ago. It's a bit of pain to push through the brambles, but I still can slip in and out easily enough." - she pointed her finger towards the low row of thatched farm buildings, their whitewashed walls in a startling contrast with dark surroundings, even over a distance - "See? It's right there. Of course, if someone the size of a half-giant tried to use it, they'd just get stuck there for the monks and guards to laugh at."

  
The man glowered at her, but as far as she could tell, he wasn't really angry anymore. She turned and jogged up the garden's winding path, damp ground soft under her feet and air sweet with heady scent of honeysuckle.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The so much anticipated trip turned out to be a misunderstanding, at least in terms of being a remotely successful hunt. This was what Millara kept telling herself, trying not to sulk as she found the way between trees, following a well discernable trail frequented by a roe herd. The animals themselves scattered in all directions when they came by them just a short while ago, their white rumps flashing in what she couldn't help but think an unneccessarily mocking manner as they disappeared in thin mist, chased by a booming laughter - apparently, the man didn't know how to be stealthy, or, worse still, did it on purpose. It was all his fault. She told him so.

 

"Oghma be patient, did you really ever hunt before?"  
"I did." - he announced - "From horseback, with falcon and hounds."  
"But of course." - Millara rolled her eyes - " _Noblemen_."

 

She has long abandoned any hope to show her skills and chosen the track mostly because she knew it led to a small dell by a stream where she usually liked to rest. The sun has almost rose and the forest's bluish darkness was slowly dissipating, giving place to soft hazy grey and golden lights, morning air still but the woods itself a hive of activity, small creatures rustling in surrounding thicket, the calls of owls and nightjars replaced by these of songbirds. She was thirsty and her hip flask was empty - which, beside another, so far vague reason, was why she wanted to find the creek before setting for home.

  
The man was mostly silent. It was nothing new, but soon begun to frustrate her nevertheless.

  
Upon reaching the place, she kneeled on the bank amongst feathery ferns, leaning over to fill the bottle while the man spread his cloak on the ground and sat down - or so she guessed from faint crackling sounds, last year's leaves lying around in dense piles.

  
What she didn't have to do was to turn around to know he was watching her. She sensed it - it was in the peculiar way her skin tickled when the man was near, but this time with a completely new intensity, his presence for once undiluted by those around them: not Imoen cast in an ungrateful role of a chaperone, not patrons at the inn and library's visitors, not the Avowen of Candlekeep, not her father. The longer they were alone, the more her mind got foggy, her heart fluttering and pit of her belly burning as if set on strange fire.

  
And this, Millara quietly admitted, was right another reason why today's hunt was doomed.

  
She put the flask away and immersed hands in water, icy droplets trickling down her wrists and chin as she drank, splashing, straying under her collar. She swallowed, then slowly proceeded with unlacing the tunic's top open, her resolve steady even though her fingers were anything but.

 

A kingfisher darted from nearby bushes - swift as an arrow, blinding her with a flash of brilliant blue and orange - a living jewel, gone so fast she wasn't sure if it was real.

  
Warm lips brushing against the tip of her ear were.

  
She held her breath and closed her eyes, filled with longing, waiting for his hands to touch her body - the same hard hands she spend entire winter dreaming about - and here they were, resting at her shoulders, pressing lightly, finger drawing a lazy line down her neck and back, along her clavicle and between her breasts. Goosebumps rose on her bared skin as she waited, her insides ever hotter, wanting more - instead, Millara heard the man's voice, low and taunting.

  
"The sun is up. Come on girl, you wouldn't want daddy to worry, would you?"

  
I hate you, she wanted to scream as she pulled the laces roughly back together and sprung to her feet, but it wasn't hatred that made her fists clench as she huffed and ostentatiously marched past him, dead set on ignoring the knowing smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  
It was disappointment.

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
